i just. i just…FUCK. i just really want harrowhark to go sicko mode when she realizes john has the power to resurrect whoever he wants he just chooses not to and even after learning about his own blood daughter he still doesn’t resurrect her he just makes her a construct. i would be alecto-levels of grief-stricken-enraged if my childhood nemesis/guard dog/whipping girl/codependent lesbian situationship that i lobotomized over/suicide-pact soulmate/only friend was suddenly here but not here haunting her own dead body and the only reason she’s present is because she was made into a fascist killing machine for a man with a power kink, and she’s not even happy about it but she’s going through the motions because all she knows of love is to be useful. (forever your sword.) and if i was harrow and i died and then came back to myself after switching bodies with the human cage holding the earth’s soul and realized all of this, i think i too would be accompanying the earth’s soul on her shoulder to go kill a man with eclipse-eyes and criminal levels of nonchalance. y’know. the one who guarded g1deon but not me, lord. the one who was so sure i had never seen that which lies insensate and with stilled mind, lord, who did not realize i was a lock and there was a key in the shape of a girl, lord. the one who looked me dead in the eye and told me i could never have my cavalier back, lord. the cavalier who came back haunted and empty and incomplete by your hand, lord.
i’m so team ‘harrowhark saves gideon for real this time not because she wants her cav but because she wants her other half’ i might lose my mind about it
1K notes
·
View notes
The Balatro Casino opens, The rules of the cards has been completely obliterated. Tarot cards and Collector cards are used for boosting the ammount of chips people will get. Many comes to compete who will have the highest chips with their money on the line.
One day a massive black holes comes erupting from the very entrance itself, a man in a dapper suit, speak to the Joker who shows him the table. He seems to be alone until the galaxy inside his suits sparkles and his shadows on the floor has risen and spoken as if thousand of disembodied eyes are watching this man make his decission on the card. One eyes speaks helps him to be ready, as the other voices calls him the prophet.
He holds his card, smiles and challenge the bets to be higher than ever before. He laughs betting the very atom of the observeable universe itself, breaking times and spaces as the table demands more and the man is simply too stubborn to lose.
At the finale, only the table and him remains. Multiple planet of Eris has surrounded him simply boosting his flush five. The game ends with a spectacular shatters on the polychrome glass of 4 spades cards. He simply laughs claps his hands as an applause for himself,
As if the very space hears his own satisfactions, the casino has rebuild itself.
He takes his 10 dollars and left to the very same darkness he comes.
----
I think you all should check this post here about the balatro gameplay cause i fucking love it and i got inspired to the a lil writing here, it just so funny to me.
233 notes
·
View notes
Headcanon #500:
Mind is afraid that when he distances himself from or above the others, that he will be too far gone to come back down. That when his paranoia gets the best of him, he'll shut everyone else out and then be completely alone with no way back to where he was before.
Heart is afraid that if Mind is right, with the idea that what he does isn't genuine, that he's being manipulative without realizing it. Then therefore being Whole without himself there is the better option. That he'd be thrown out because his ideas would then be "not worth it" or even "vile"
Soul is afraid that no matter what he does or how good things will be, they'll always eventually split up again or even end up worse. Even then he has no clue what he's supposed to do or be during everything, and so because of that he'll never be whole. Or worse that he'll never really "feel" whole.
98 notes
·
View notes
forbidden fruit (g.suguru)
suguru used to share grapefruit with you after class.
it was a simple thing. you both would wait for at the same bus stop, him catching the first and you catching the second. one day your stomach happened to growl especially loudly and the rest was history.
he was popular enough to get at least a few gifted to him during the months where they were ripest, maybe from different people or maybe not. the details never mattered all that much to you whenever he offered you half of one.
the smell of april showers always mixed in with the aroma of the peels, zesting the air with citrus.
he always peeled them so delicately, even targeting the patchy white pith that latched itself to the meat of the fatty fruit. he said he wasn’t a fan of the texture. that the extra time it took to scratch and strip the extra skin off was worth it.
you never had the patience for it. it might have been why he offered to peel them so often. he made them look and feel like such a gentle fruit.
“i used to be able to eat these whole all on my own as a kid,” he said one afternoon. “now, if i eat more than half my stomach gets upset.”
he splits the fruit in two, his thumbs digging, forcing juice to pool into the crevices of his fingers and lines of his palms. a pool of it stains the laps of your uniforms by the time suguru’s bus arrives. he leaves you with the corners of your lips tangy and licked wet.
"i used to mistake them for oranges," you included internally.
it felt embarrassing to say aloud. the words would have left your mouth stupidly as each memory of him expertly dodging your friendly questions tainted the skin of your fingertips. keeping you at an arm's length, stretching just close enough to offer you something.
he would have laughed. you might have smiled naively, glancing down to the remaining slice pinched between your stained pointer and thumb before popping it into your mouth.
you huffed a breath out of your nose sharply, cheeks sapped by his contagious inclusivity. he had a way of making you feel part of something greater, even if it were for just a few moments at a time.
for weeks you watched him: the way he licked juice off his plump lips, the way he styled his hair, the way his legs spread whenever he sat down, and how he always perched his backpack on his lap; you felt included to view all these little antics.
you wondered if—during all that time—he noticed things about you too.
the last time the two of you share fruit is anticlimactic. your guard is down. you don't even find out that he'll be gone until the new school year starts and a week of you alone at that bench passes.
you suck at the nectar on your hands messily, turning your head towards the road after hearing the sound of tires rolling through gravel.
the last thing you remember is seeing the back of his head. your eyes drifting to the closed fist at his side, a grapefruit peel peeking out of the crevice of his palm.
93 notes
·
View notes